


Caring Is Not An Advantage

by Goldfish (Dusty)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Discipline, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Minor Violence, Sibling Rivalry, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:43:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1209766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty/pseuds/Goldfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little Sherlock is scheming more and more, but only Mycroft can fully appreciate or abhor his behaviour. A little look into Mycroft's influences and choices in how he deals with his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caring Is Not An Advantage

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft is 15, Sherlock is 8. Takes place during early summer while Mycroft is at home on study leave for his exams.
> 
> Contains mild spanking/spanking references in the context of family discipline.

Mycroft opened his eyes. The clock read 2:15am. His head swam as he remembered he had an exam in the morning and would need to be fresh. So why the hell could he hear the violin?

_Sherlock._

He heard a door open followed by heavy foot falls.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes!” came his mother’s scolding tone. “One more note and you won’t see that violin until after Christmas.”

Mycroft heard silence, followed by a clumsy return to the bedroom. Job interview. 9:30am. She needed the sleep more than him.

He huffed and turned over, trying not to feel angry with his little brother. It wouldn’t be the first time such things had kept him awake at night. Happily, before long, he drifted off to sleep, and he was captain of his own boat on the Nile, about to throw a stowaway overboard…

_A high note. Quite beautiful. Pretty good for an eight year old._

Before he knew what was happening, he threw back his duvet and stormed out of his bedroom. The music was too distant… Sherlock must have moved his night time rehearsal from his bedroom to the downstairs study. He stalked towards it, the music ceasing (no doubt Sherlock heard him coming) but the little boy was unable to find a hiding place in time…

Mycroft caught Sherlock around the waist just as he was diving under mummy’s desk, and stood him up straight. He folded his arms and assumed the pose he’d adopted from his father.

“Sherlock,” he growled. “Mummy has her job interview in the morning. I have an exam. It’s the middle of the night.”

“But I need to practise!” whined Sherlock.

“No,” said Mycroft, wagging his finger. “Give that to me.” He indicated the violin.

Sherlock pouted. “No.”

Mycroft whipped the instrument out of his brother’s hands and turned on his heel. “If you’re not back in bed in 60 seconds, Sherlock, I’ll cut the strings.”

“Dickhead!” shouted Sherlock.

Mycroft pursed his lips as he turned again, paced back to his smirking brother and smacked him on the leg. Sherlock gasped at the sting of it but bit his lip and resolutely stared him out.

Mycroft loomed over him. “Just because mummy and daddy never hear you say things like that doesn’t mean you won’t get into trouble, Sherlock. You’ll get into trouble with me.”

“You can’t do anything,” sneered Sherlock. “That didn’t hurt.”

Mycroft gave him a knowing look and swept out of the study. As soon as he’d gone, Sherlock rubbed his smarting thigh, and skulked back to his bedroom. The situation now clarified, he got into bed and slept soundly until morning.

The next few days passed without incident, albeit with Sherlock constantly complaining of feeling unwell despite exhibiting no symptoms, and Mycroft finding that his wellington boots had disappeared. He knew it must be Sherlock, but between his exams and planning the following weekend’s prefects’ excursion he hadn’t had time to confront his naughty little brother.

One morning that same week, Mycroft came downstairs to find Sherlock with a thermometer stuck in his mouth and lolloping pathetically in his chair. His mother was busying around them and his father, as usual, was humming to himself whilst reading the paper.

“My poor baby,” his mother said as she hovered over Sherlock, removing the thermometer and reading the result.

Mycroft noticed the half drunk cup of coffee within arm’s reach of Sherlock, plus some droplets on the table.

“If it reads as a high temperature it’s probably because he stuck it in your coffee,” he said casually.

Sherlock scowled.

“Nonsense, Mikey,” answered his mother. “He was also sick in the night.”

“Stuck his fingers down his throat,” Mycroft continued as if reading the weather.

“Mycroft,” warned his father from behind his newspaper. The humming resumed.

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock was smirking at him.

Mrs Holmes shook the thermometer. “Well he can’t go to school, poor poppet. Back to bed with you, little one.” She scooped up her baby boy and carried him out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Sherlock rested his head on her shoulder, eyes shining at Mycroft until he was out of sight.

“He’s faking it,” said Mycroft. “He’s up to something.”

The newspaper rustled as the humming stopped again. His father lowered the periodical and fixed Mycroft with a firm look. “Mind your own beeswax,” he said deliberately. “Eat your breakfast.” The newspaper rose back up again.

“Not hungry,” came Mycroft’s sullen response. He stood, went to his mother’s cake tin and removed a wrapped treat for later. He stuffed it into his trouser pocket as he grabbed his bag and made for the front door.

He father regarded him over the top of the headlines. “Have a good day,” he called pleasantly.

Mycroft took great pleasure first in slamming the front door hard, and second in hearing his mother shout his full name in despair.

He enjoyed the peace and quiet of the country lane as he made his way to the bus stop. His mother had given up offering to drive him to his exams as he always refused. She wouldn't stop prattling on. He needed the time to cement everything without the obligation to communicate with anyone. Without Sherlock's violin. And there it was, his bad mood. His little brother seemed to be getting more and more out of control while his parents acted as if it was just cute. The little boy had also recently planted an open pack of cigarettes in Mycroft's bedroom when he knew mummy was going to go in there. That had resulted in Mycroft's allowance being frozen for a month.

_Devious._

Mycroft smiled to himself. _Not so stupid after all_.

All at once his smile disappeared. His baby brother was going to run rings around them all. At least for today, he consoled himself, he could enjoy his exam and later immerse himself in the library, which was joyously free of other students at this time of year.

He strolled along the footpath, alone with his thoughts.

\---

Sherlock was in bed by the time Mycroft got home that evening, apparently having been 'limp as rag doll' all day. Mycroft shook his head to himself, unable to fathom how his otherwise intelligent mother couldn't see through Sherlock's performance.

"He was reading the medical dictionary again the other day," he said in a bored voice. "He's been studying symptoms."

"Nonsense, Mikey," said his mother sternly. "It's going around at his school. He said he didn't want to get what Russell Havelock had."

"Nice touch," Mycroft replied, biting into his dinner. Suddenly his plate was pulled away from him.

"That is enough," she said. "Your brother is _poorly_." She was glaring at him severely.

"Well, then," said her teenage son confidently. "I'd better keep my strength up, lest I fall victim to the very same plague."

He pulled his plate back towards him and tucked in once more, smiling as his mother flounced out of the kitchen with pure exasperation.

\---

  
It was a scream that woke him up. A real cry. It paralysed him for a moment, dread locking him down, but then he came to his senses. His mother had screamed for his father.

Mycroft ran out onto the landing. "What is it?" he asked, alarmed and suddenly terrified that Sherlock truly was very ill.

"He's gone!" cried his mother. She was white as a sheet and flustered. "He's gone from the room! Kidnapped!"

"You don't know that," came the calming voice of Mr Holmes as he appeared in his dressing gown.

"Well he was too ill to go anywhere himself!" she shouted. "He's not in the house! His slippers and shoes are still in his room! He's not in the bathroom!"

Mycroft flung himself into his brother's bedroom. Everything was as it should be. Except there was no Sherlock.

He blinked. Something else was out of place. His eyes fell on the violin case.

The _empty_ violin case _._

Mycroft remembered his missing wellington boots, and knew immediately that Sherlock was 500 metres away at the bottom of the garden playing the violin.

“Oh my god, he could be anywhere!” exclaimed Mrs Holmes, in the throes of blind panic.

Mycroft sighed. “He’s in the shed with his bloody violin.”

They both stared at him.

“It’s obvious.” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “He's been pretending to be ill so he could go to bed early so he could sneak out of the house before you locked up. He stole my wellies so he wouldn’t get mud on his shoes when he crept down to the bottom of the garden. He’s taken his violin because all he wants to do is play it. He’s in the bloody shed.”

“Language,” chided his father.

Mycroft rolled his eyes while his mother exhaled with extreme relief. “I’m going to kill him,” she murmured, hunting for her shoes.

“I’ll go and get him,” said Mycroft, dashing down the stairs and out of the house before either parent could intervene.

He'd jumped into his father's wellies and now stalked down the large, dark garden towards the shed. He could hear the notes of the violin squeaking out into the night. He burst though the door, startling Sherlock who was absorbed in one of Bach’s cantatas. Sherlock shuffled back, eyes wide.

Mycroft lurched at him. He wrenched the violin out of Sherlock’s hands and discarded it none-too-gently on a shelf, grabbing the little boy by the arm. He immediately brought his hand down on Sherlock’s bottom in a volley of swats, smacking him soundly.

“You stupid little boy! Have you any idea how much you’ve upset mummy?”

He continued to smack his little brother as Sherlock let out a scream.

“Mycroft!” came his mother’s booming voice.

He jerked back guiltily and let go of his brother. Sherlock opened his mouth wide, both hands on his assaulted bottom, and began to wail as he ran towards his mother’s open arms.

She gathered him up and comforted him, holding him tightly to her. Her angry eyes fell on her older son.

Mycroft suddenly felt very keenly that he was the one in trouble, though he wasn’t sure how the situation had flipped around quite so abruptly.

“He lied!” he said quickly, words tumbling out of his mouth. “He was never poorly. He faked his symptoms all so he could do all this!" He gestured towards a sleeping bag, a torch, one of his own library books, a cigarette lighter, some snacks and sweets stolen from the larder, and a stack of sheet music. "He’s got a whole camp out here _and_ he scared the life out of you!”

“Quiet!” barked his mother.

Mycroft flinched.

“Back to the house, both of you.” She took the sobbing Sherlock firmly by the hand. “Bring the violin, Mycroft.”

Mycroft resisted the urge to smash the confounded instrument against the wall and snatched it up, trailing behind them all the way back to the house.

Mr Holmes frowned as his youngest son was led into the house, tears streaming down his face and one hand desperately rubbing his backside.

“Did you smack him?” he asked his wife incredulously.

“No I did not,” she replied angrily. “Your son did.”

Mycroft appeared sheepishly in the doorway at that moment. His father scowled at him.

"Close the door," said Mr Holmes.

Mycroft did so, carefully placing the violin on the hall table and ringing his hands as he followed his family into the living room. Sherlock was pulled into his mother’s lap, crying softly as she rocked him.

“You don’t understand!" stated Mycroft, raising his voice now. "He planned the whole thing. He knew what he was doing. He lied to you. He can’t be allowed to get away with that!”

Sherlock turned his head and glared daggers at him.

“Mycroft, go to the kitchen, now,” ordered his mother sharply.

He blinked with disbelief. Were they blind? Frustration engulfed him as he saw no choice but to obey. He swept out of the room and gave the kitchen door a violent slam, hearing various bits and pieces flutter to the floor in his wake.  He immediately felt ashamed, then nervous. He was behaving like a petulant child himself, not the prodigal son.

He was trembling. He paced for a few seconds before he heard the door handle turn. He froze.

The door opened to reveal his stony-faced father, who closed it behind him very precisely, before placing his hands in his pockets and glowering at his son.

Mycroft swallowed as he shifted on his feet. “I’m so--,” he began.

“Sit down,” came the quiet command.

Mycroft obeyed immediately, quite stunned.

Silence filled the room for several seconds.

“I didn’t need to hit you to make you do that, did I?” continued Mr Holmes, his tone unnervingly soft while partnered with his severe glare.

Mycroft shook his head and averted his eyes.

“Stay there and think on it.” It was all he said before calmly leaving the room and returning to bed.

Mycroft felt winded. He couldn’t remember a time when his father appeared so cross. He’d normally give him just a look, eyes still twinkling, or at worst a ‘listen to your mother’, but was almost always a benign and warm presence. He felt a chill on the back of his neck.

He could hear his mother still comforting his brattish brother next door until she eventually ushered the grizzling child to bed.

The house became quiet.

Still, Mycroft sat at the kitchen table. So his brother really was clever after all. Isn’t this what he wanted? Someone who could join the dots in the same way he could? But all he could think was he didn’t want this for Sherlock. The alienation. The misapprehension. The frustration. 

Someone was coming. He tensed as he recognised his mother’s stride.

A moment later she burst into the kitchen.

“Well, my boy, I hope you have a good explanation.” She placed both hands down on the table and looked him right in the eye, rather like a headmistress.

“He deserved it!” said Mycroft. “He lied and broke the rules and you’re not even telling him off! You thought he’d been kidnapped!”

“Does that mean you can hit him?”

“You said I was in charge of him,” said Mycroft, genuinely nonplussed.

“That doesn’t give you the right to smack him, Mycroft! I am the mother and I will decide how to punish my children. You are not, ever, to hit your brother. Do you understand?”

Mycroft swallowed. “You smacked me when I ran away from school.”

“Yes, I did. I was out of my mind with worry and you seemed utterly unaware of the danger you were in. Your father disapproves and I’ve done my best not to resort to that again.”

Mycroft folded his arms. “Well I’m glad you’ve learned from your mistakes with me and are now in a position to be a wonderful parent to my brother,” he said bitterly.

“Mikey,” she warned, coming around to his side of the table.

“He’s too clever,” he said suddenly. “He knows how to outsmart you and you won’t even punish him!”

“I will punish him and he knows it,” she argued.

“Oh what? No TV? No violin? That won’t make a dent. He’ll find a way around it. You’re too predictable. Someone needs to stop him. You need to challenge him or he’ll end up getting into all kinds of trouble!”

“No Mycroft!” she admonished. “You will end up in all kinds of trouble if you don’t watch your lip.” She pointed her finger at him and Mycroft felt like a little boy himself. “Your weekend is cancelled as it is.”

“You can’t!” exclaimed Mycroft, crestfallen. “It’s the outing and I’m a prefect!”

“Would you prefer a smacked bottom, then?” she asked pointedly.

He gaped at her, finding the situation impossible and sinking back in defeat.

“I thought not. We’re above that, aren’t we?”

He didn’t answer but silently fumed at the floor.

“Mikey,” she said softly. “You must have known what you were doing was wrong. Why did you jump like that when I walked in? That was guilt, Mycroft Holmes. You lost your temper. You have no right to mete out punishment, any kind of punishment. You defer to daddy or me for that.”

She leaned into him, gently raising his chin and forcing eye contact. “Sherlock is younger than you. He has a lot to learn. You can’t expect him to be at your level.” She sighed loudly. “And if you ever hit him again, young man, I will give you a taste of your own medicine, prefect or no; whether your father approves or no. Clear?”

Mycroft flushed. “Yes,” he mumbled. Then remembering how all of this started he looked up at her in earnest again. “But you’ve got to do something about his behaviour and let him know he can’t get away with it,” he said.

Seeing the real concern in his eyes, she bent down to kiss his forehead tenderly.

“He’s just a little boy, Mikey. He’ll learn.”

At that, Mycroft felt his heart sink. Could she really not see just how devious Sherlock had become?

“Back to bed,” she said with a sigh, making for upstairs. She gave him a loving smile before leaving the room.

Mycroft couldn’t move. He felt hollow. He knew in his mind he was just 15 years old, but his shoulders felt the burden of many more years. Why did no one see what he could see? Why did no one understand?

He remained still, in that kitchen, where his father had put him with just two words.

_Two words._

The room grew more and more silent while his heart pounded all the louder.  

Moonlight filtered in through the kitchen window as Mycroft sat helplessly, simmering in the injustice of it all.

He heard a noise and noticed his little brother peeping around the door. They looked at each other for a moment.

“Do you have to stay in the kitchen all night?” asked Sherlock, bewildered.

Mycroft frowned. “No. I’m thinking,” he said authoritatively. For some reason he didn’t feel like it was time for him to move yet. “You should be in bed.”

Sherlock tentatively made his way further into the kitchen. His eyes were wide as he regarded his big brother. “Are you still angry with me?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft, though he honestly felt too tired to be angry. “Furious. Next time I’m going to whip you and hang you upside down from a tree.”

Sherlock grinned, finding his brother entirely unconvincing. Then he dashed across the kitchen and threw his arms around the bigger boy's waist.

“Sorry, Mikey,” he said.

Mycroft felt his throat dry up. He scooped the eight year old up into his lap.

“Don’t ever make me do that again,” said Mycroft sternly.

“I’ll try,” said Sherlock simply. “But you’re the one who catches me.”

“I know,” said Mycroft. “I will always catch you. You’ll have to try much harder to fool me.”

“Okay,” said the little boy, as if accepting the challenge. Mycroft couldn’t repress a slight smile. He ran his fingers through the mass of obstinate curls on the boy’s head.

“Don’t be smart, Sherlock,” he pleaded softly, his voice hoarse.

He held the little boy tighter than he’d done in years.

“Please, don’t be smart.”

Sherlock clung onto Mycroft all the more but said nothing. A short while later, he was snoozing soundly in his big brother’s arms.

Mycroft remained still, listening to Sherlock’s rhythmic breathing and holding him close.

A terrible clarity rang in his ears. It was up to him now. 


End file.
